


epiphanies

by blithelybonny



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Anal Sex, Consensual Infidelity, Emotions Getting in the way of a good Cupfuck, Frottage, Gangbang, M/M, Or Is It?, Overstimulation, Praise Kink, Public Sex, Relationship Problems, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2018-02-21
Packaged: 2019-03-08 06:09:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13452150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blithelybonny/pseuds/blithelybonny
Summary: From the kinkmeme: Winning the Cup also wins the Falconers the right to fuck the captain from a team of their choice.Guess who they voted for?





	1. part one

**Author's Note:**

> Un-beta'd and no longer anon because of reasons. :D
> 
> Thanks to the nonnies at ffa and the kinkmeme for indulging me. <3

Jack spends most of the other guys' turns watching the reactions around the room. It's easier than having to watch Parse take it repeatedly and examine closely the tightening of his ribcage around his heart with each noise that comes out of Parse's mouth. It's interesting to catalog who's getting off because they're enjoying it and who's getting off because of the power or control of the thing.

But then it's Tater's turn, and Jack watches the way Parse's thighs tense and flex as Tater crosses the dressing room to the chirps and catcalls of their teammates.

"Hook 'im by the collar, Mash!" cries Logger, to an answering round of cheers.

Jack remembers that first game against the Aces--a dirty goal, a pile-up, Parse's hunted face when Tater manhandled him up like he weighed nothing at all. He remembers that face from years ago too, fights and words not meant but said anyway, Parse laying himself bare and Jack resenting him for it. "No," Jack says, but it's too quiet for anyone to hear.

Tater reaches the bench, and Parse's hands loosen, preparing to be hauled up again, but instead, Jack watches as Tater leans forward to whisper something in Parse's ear before he gathers Parse up in his arms and carries him over to brace against the wall. The guys are hollering, loving it, chirping, teasing, laughing, but Jack's blood is pounding in his ears.

Everyone else had fucked Parse from behind--all the easier to pretend Parse was a woman if they needed to, all the easier to pretend they weren't enjoying it on its face but on the perceived dominance of it if they needed to--but Tater turns Parse around, hitches Parse's thighs up to wrap around his waist, and slowly starts to grind his hips up in a rhythm closer to glacial than frantic. He's not even inside Parse; he's rutting against Parse's cock, and Parse's eyes are as wide open as his mouth and locked onto Tater's.

Parse is a goddamn mess, and he's never looked more beautiful, and Jack can't breathe.

"Almost feels like we should leave them to it, eh?" comes Thirdy's voice at Jack's side.

"No," Jack says again, louder, but hoarse. "No, I--"

Thirdy laughs. "Easy, kid, you'll get your turn too. Them's the rules."

But that's not what Jack was going to say.

Jack's feet start to carry him across the room before it's his turn, but Thirdy grabs him by the arm with a laugh and another "be patient!" that Jack barely hears. He can't figure out what he's actually feeling, as he watches Tater duck his face behind Parse's ear. It's still too loud to hear what he's saying, but from the look on Parse's face, it's really good. Parse's eyes have squeezed shut now, and his mouth is slack with pleasure. Jack knows none of the rest of it had been pleasurable for Parse--it couldn't have been, could it?

"Come on, Tater, Zimmboni's gettin' antsy over here," calls Marty; it earns what Jack tries not to hear as mocking laughter from the peanut gallery, and Jack goes hot all over: anxious and aroused and a million other things he doesn't have words for.

Tater's saying something to Parse again, something that startles Parse into a huff of laughter and a weak smile. Parse raises a hand from where it's gripping Tater's back and flips the room off, earning another rousing round of chirps, slightly more aggressive than before.

"You're gonna get in there and light that ass up, aren't ya, Zimmermann?" shouts Logger.

Jack's hands are tight fists at his sides, and he forces himself to stay still, as Parse's eyes open wide again and find him from across the room.

Tater's fucking Parse properly now, and why does it feel like Jack can actually fucking hear it? It's too loud in the room, but it doesn't seem to matter because Jack swears he can hear the rhythmic slap of skin on skin, the harsh exhalations that Tater's pulling from Parse with every deep thrust, or maybe--maybe it's those high, tight whines that Kenny always used to be embarrassed by whenever Jack lucked into thrusting over the perfect spot inside him.

"Get it, Mash," Logger shouts, as Tater removes one arm from around Parse's waist and braces it up against the wall for better leverage.

How the fuck is Parse holding on? He's so--he's just so good. Has he always been this good? Has he always been so good at taking it? How the fuck--how did Jack just throw that away?

"You all right, kid?" Marty asks, quiet, in Jack's ear.

Jack's face must be doing something complicated. He swallows hard and manages, he thinks, to say evenly, "Yeah, m'fine. Just want to get this over with, I guess."

Thirdy laughs quietly on Jack's other side. "Yeah, not really everybody's cup of tea, but you know...tradition."

Fleetingly, Jack wonders how his dad felt when he was in this position.

Marty claps Jack on the back. "Just go a little faster than Tater, will you? I have a wife I want to go home to fuck."

"Fuckin' same," says Thirdy.

Tater's rolling his hips slow and deep again, his ass is clenching tight as he pushes into Parse like it's all he's ever wanted--and Jack really knows how that feels, and fuck--fuck--this is so goddamn unfair!

It feels like ages before Tater comes with a long groan, hips flush against Parse's. It's at least another few minutes before Parse's legs slip down from around Tater's waist. He's shaky as Tater helps him back over to the bench. His dick is flagging a little, but he's definitely hasn't come yet. Jack knows what Parse looks like when he's come. His Aces sweater is filthy with sweat and jizz, and he looks fucking debauched, and now it's Jack's turn, and he suddenly and viscerally doesn't know if he can handle this. He suddenly and viscerally knows that he has to be better than Tater. He can be better than Tater. He can make Kenny come for real. Kenny deserves that after how good he's been so far. He deserves it so much.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Thirdy says, wrapping an arm around Jack's shoulders and leading him into the center of the room, "I give you your Stanley Cup Championship MVP, Jack Zimmermann."

A chorus of whoops and cheers and applause rings out, and Jack realizes he's supposed to say something. Maybe if it was anyone else. Maybe if it had been Crosby or Giroux or Tavares or Toews, Jack could have mustered up the appropriate level of jokey, chirpy bullshit about traditions and the joy of knowing you're the best in the league this time and the taking of what's rightfully theirs as the winners.

But it's Kenny.

"I, euh, well," Jack stammers out, and the guys laugh at him. He glances over at Tater, who's up against the same stretch of wall that he just fucked Parse to within an inch of his life, and Tater's expression is unreadable, which is absurd because Tater's the most expressive person Jack's ever met besides Bits. "I mean, good season?" he finishes.

"Good season!" Marty and Thirdy echo, and the rest of the team cheers again.

"Go on and get your trophy, Zimmboni," adds Logger, who steps out of the circle and shoves Jack towards the bench.

Parse's chest is heaving from exertion, and his eyes are closed against what must be exhaustion. "Hiya Jack," he breathes more than says, not looking up.

Jack reaches out a hand, doesn't think of what it might look like, and carefully cups Parse's chin. He tilts Parse's face up and squeezes gently until Parse opens his eyes. They're green right now, but dark with arousal. Jack swallows hard and says, "Hiya bud."

Parse smiles weakly, just a brief quirk of his lips that Jack would have missed if he hadn't been laser-focused on Parse's face. "So...how do you want me?" he murmurs.

It takes all of Jack's considerable self-control not to blurt out any way I can; he's not even sure exactly where the sentiment came from, but it feels true in his bones. Jack breathes in and out, even and slow, and it feels like the moment before he sunk the top shelf, Stanley winning goal in Game 7: inevitable.

Jack traces his thumb over Parse's bottom lip, and a callus catches on a rough, chapped bit, dragging Parse's lip down a little. As Parse extends his tongue just a little to soothe, Jack replies, "I want you to ride me."

Parse gasps, "Oh."

"Ha!" Logger says, just behind Jack. Jack hadn't even noticed him come up. "Fuckin' power move, Jackie-boy. Nice!"

But it's not a power move, not really. It's just...Jack wants to show Parse off. He wants to show everyone how good Parse looks when he's in Jack's lap. He wants to show everyone that Parse is--that Parse belongs to--oh. Oh.

Jack rolls his shoulder, easily removing Logger's hand from its perch, and Logger laughs and takes a step back. "Go on, get it, kid. MVP!" he gets the cheer up again. "MVP! MVP! MVP!"

Parse's eyes have fallen shut again, and he's trembling a little bit. And that won't do, not at all. "You okay?" Jack asks, as he takes a seat next to Parse on the bench. "Are you still with me?"

"I'm okay," Parse replies, a shivery whisper that Jack isn't sure he should trust. He knows the rules, after all. This might be the first time he's ever participated in a CupFuck, but he knows that as an A, it's his duty to check in and put a stop to things if it's clear that the opposing captain can't keep going. But then, Parse manages to heave himself up and swing his leg over so that he's straddling Jack's lap. "I'm okay, Zim--Jack. I'm okay. Please, please," he begs.

"I'll take care of you," Jack says. It just comes out, like nothing, like the only thing he ever could have said. One hand comes down and settles on Parse's ass, and the other hand guides Parse's hip, starts Parse grinding against him slow and easy. "I've got you."

"Ja-ack, I--oh fuck," Parse whimpers, as Jack slides a finger into him. He's open and tacky-slick, easy from so much use. Parse bears back on it as he grinds back and then forward again, frotting hard and hot.

Jack doesn't waste too much time, slipping in another finger and then a third, watching the way Parse's eyelids flutter with each addition, watching the way it plays across Parse's face how much he likes it. "You're doing so well, Kent," Jack whispers, leaning in just like Tater had, speaking right up against Parse's ear. Then, he traces his tongue along the shell of Parse's ear, dips in, and then sucks the lobe hard. Tater wouldn't have known to do that, couldn't have known the way it makes Kenny shiver and squirm and clench. He's so easy and he's so good--Jack tells him so again, and Parse moans.

Jack can sort of feel that the mood in the room is shifting, and while it should make him nervous and uncomfortable, he finds it hard to concentrate on it too much, not when Kent is falling apart in his lap. "Gotta fuck you now," he says, murmurs it into Kent's neck this time. "Can I fuck you now, baby?"

"FUCK," Kent hisses in Jack's ear. "Yes, please, oh God, please."

He's whining and squirming with need, and he feels so good around Jack's fingers and against Jack's cock that it really does almost seem a waste to fuck him--they could get off together just like this, like it used to be, but better.

"Come on, kid..." "Dude, shut up!" "What the fuck?"

"Jack, please," Kent breathes, grinding down on Jack's fingers. "Please, Jack, I want it."

"You want me, right, baby? It's just me you want, right?" Jack all but growls in Kent's ear, twisting his fingers just so until Kent shudders visibly. "Tell me you want it."

"I want it, Zi--Ja-ack, please, please, I want you, I want it so bad, please," Kent babbles.

"Dude, what the fuck?" "Shut the fuck up Logger." "What is this shit?" "SHUT THE FUCK UP LOGGER."

"Come on, Kenny," Jack whispers.

Kent stills briefly and then cries out as he sags forward into Jack's chest, coming hard and painting Jack's stomach with it.

Jack coaxes Kenny through it, tracing the stitching of the 90, sliding a hand down to gently massage his hip, whispering praise into Kenny's ear, against his sweaty hair, holding him close.

"Zimms. Zimms, I'm so tired," Kenny slurs.

"Shhh, I know, but you did so good, Kenny. I'm so proud of you." Jack doesn't know where it's all coming from, but it's spilling out of him easy as anything. "You just--you were--"

A hand comes down on Jack's shoulder then, stirring him out of his stupor. He looks up, and it's Thirdy, looking serious and concerned. "You good, Zimmermann?" he asks.

Jack swallows hard against a sudden lump in his throat and tightens his grip a little on Kent, who buries his face in Jack's neck a little more. Jack's still hard, still really wants to fuck Kent, but realizes suddenly and fiercely that he really wants to get the fuck out of there too. This isn't, fuck, this shouldn't be for them. He loves his team, but they shouldn't get to see this. "Yeah," Jack answers him, voice hoarse as he fights against the rising tide of anxiety.

"Okay," Thirdy says and then glances over at Marty, who's come up on the other side. "We're gonna give you a hand, okay?"

"Parson, thank you for your services," Marty says, as he carefully disentangles Parse from Jack's arms. "We are very much obliged to you, aren't we boys?"

Several of the guys whistle or applaud, but it's much more subdued than it was--and Jack flushes hot with embarrassment because it's his fault. He, fuck. He made it weird. He made it so fucking weird, and he doesn't even know why he did it.

(He knows why, he absolutely knows why.)

Thirdy and Marty are leading Parse to the showers like it's the least they can do, and Jack remains on the bench, hands gripping the edge and head down, as he breathes through the pain in his chest. He opens his eyes and sees Parse's come there on his stomach. Jack lifts a hand, stretches out the tightness in his fingers, and then sifts them through the mess.

"You sure you're okay, Zimmboni?" Jack looks up and Tater's staring down at him, that same weird look in his eyes. "You feel better now?" Tater asks.

Jack's eyes widen; he darts his gaze past Tater just in time to see Parse sag against Thirdy's side as they round the corner into the shower-area. "I...he's--" Jack cuts off and rises from the bench. "I should, euh--"

"You should," Tater interrupts him.

Jack exhales sharply through his nose. "I should," he says.

Jack finds Thirdy and Marty with their heads bent in close, talking quietly and seriously to each other in front of the stall that Parse is in. Parse's arms are braced on the wall and his head hangs, as the water beats down on his back. He looks so tired--all Jack wants to do is wrap him in a towel and put him to bed. But his chest is still tight and his brain is buzzing with anxiety, so he supposes he can't really do anything until they talk.

"Kenny?" Jack says.

Marty and Thirdy look up, but Parse flinches, and it seems to have a direct line to Jack's chest because it tightens so much Jack has to raise a hand and rub at the twinge.

"Kid, I don't think--"

"--no, it's okay, Robinson," Parse interrupts. He still isn't looking though.

"Parson, really, it's done, your obligation is fulfilled," Marty says.

"I said, it's okay, man, seriously. Just, ah..." Parse looks up finally, turns around and then seems to remember he's naked because he flinches again and drops his hands to cover his dick. "I'm sure we'll only be a minute, right, Zimmermann?"

No. No. He can't-- Jack has to fix this. He has to fix this. He might not be entirely sure what's broken or what the hell he did, but he's going to fix this. Because--because he never wants to hear Kenny say his name like that ever again.

"Right," Jack replies, more for Thirdy and Marty's benefits. "Just give us a minute, please."

Thirdy and Marty exchange tense looks, but then Thirdy points at the door back to the dressing room and says, "Be good, kid."

"I will," Jack replies evenly. And when they're gone, Jack says, "I'm sorry," never taking his eyes off Kenny

He can hear Kent's sharp intake of breath even over the spray of the shower.

Kenny's hands fall to his sides, loose and helpless. He looks so...exposed. All raw nerves and shed armor. Whatever arrogant, jokey mask he wore when he walked into the Falconers' dressing room earlier is long gone, and in its place is just...a boy who once upon a time made the mistake of falling in love with a boy who wasn't ready to be loved.

"Kenny, I don't," Jack begins, taking a step closer to the shower-stall and exhaling a shaky breath, "I don't know what just happened in there, but I am sorry."

Kent doesn't say anything for a moment too long, enough for Jack to count ten breaths in and out, but then he drops his head again and turns away. "Not good enough," Kent says, small, but pointed.

It's probably a bad idea. It's probably a fucking terrible idea, but considering he's made terrible rash choices up until this point, Jack doesn't think he's going to be able to stop just yet. And deep down, he's not ready to...doesn't want to.

Jack quietly sheds his own sweater and steps out of his boxer-briefs. He steps into the shower behind Kenny, rests his hands on the two short sidewalls of the stall and waits. And it only takes a moment before Kenny lets go a deep sigh and steps back into the waiting cradle of Jack's arms. Jack wraps Kenny up, one hand low on his belly and the other across his chest and gripping his shoulder. Jack turns his face and whispers again into Kenny's temple, "I'm sorry."

Kenny tenses a little and says, "Not. Good. Enough. Jack, you have to--you have to tell me what you're sorry for. What, like, specifically are you sorry about?"

Now Jack tenses, until Kenny turns his head to meet Jack's face, until Kenny sighs again, until Kenny's lips press soft and sweet to Jack's jaw. Jack closes his eyes, and he says, "I should have gone first. It wouldn't have hurt so much if I'd gone first."

Kenny lets out a scoffing laugh, almost just a huff of breath, and Jack can hear the gentle disbelief in it, so he relaxes his shoulders and skates his fingers down a little and then back up along Kenny's treasure trail. It's always easier to talk when he's got something to do with his hands. "You laughing at me, Kenny?" he asks quietly, not accusing.

"Nah, Zimms, just...surprised. Going back that far, huh?" Kenny arches back a little into the contact.

And Jack, for a second, doesn't realize what Kent meant, but then-- "Oh, no, euh..."

"Guess we'll never know, but if I was a betting man," and Jack can hear the smirk in Kenny's tone at his dumb joke, "I'd put money on it still hurting like fucking hell if you'd gone first in the draft like you were supposed to."

Jack shakes his head, jostling Kenny a little bit. It's taken him years to understand and accept, but he can admit now that, "No, Kenny, you were always supposed to go first. I'm sorry I couldn't be okay with that."

Kenny freezes again in Jack's arms, stays silent for a long time. After a bit, Jack starts to trace up and down Kent's lower abdomen again. Then, Kent asks, quietly, "College or therapy?"

"What?"

"Who taught you that?" Kenny asks, pressing back into Jack's embrace again. Jack's cock slides along Kenny's ass at the movement, and it feels amazing, and it takes his self-control again not thrust up against it again. "Was it college or therapy?"

Jack wants to say a little of both, but he knows what's actually true. "Time, I guess," he answers. "I'm sorry it took me so long."

Kenny moves again, and this time it feels deliberate, a slow rolling of his ass against Jack's groin, but then he stops. He turns in Jack's embrace and wraps his arms around Jack's waist, looks up to meet Jack's gaze. He swallows significantly--Jack watches his throat working--and says, "Zimms, it was gonna hurt whether you went first, last, or anywhere in between. You know that, don't you?"

Jack doesn't want to admit it, but: "I know, Kenny."

Kenny sags against Jack then, his face pressing into Jack's neck, his hands reaching up, seeking purchase in a shirt collar that isn't there. It's been twenty minutes or so since they've last been in this position, but it's also been over a year, and it's also been years since he had Kenny pressed against him, holding him, marveling at their position, obvious awe that he gets to have this in his ridiculous eyes. And Jack thinks that maybe it's arrogance that's always got in the way. Yes, he was anxious and afraid, yes he had responsibilities on his shoulders, the burden of a legacy he honestly doesn't know if he ever wanted in the first place, yes he's Jack Zimmermann who works harder than God and just wants the best for himself and his team, but underneath all of it, there was that overwhelming sense that the reason he was so afraid was simply because he knew he was better.

"Fuck, Jack, I mi--" Kenny cuts himself off, but Jack knows what he was going to say.

Jack holds Kenny tighter, lets himself feel Kenny's exhalations against the hollow of his throat, lets himself remember what it felt like to have this and not be afraid that someone was going to walk in and take it all away from him (even if the thief was himself).

The water's still streaming down Kenny's back, and it can't be all that comfortable after all that he's been through today, but he doesn't say anything for another long moment. Then, Kenny pulls back just enough to reach his face up, lips brushing against Jack's, and say, "Can you take me somewhere, Zimms?"

The Cupfuck rules generally include a provision for the winning captain to provide the visiting captain with lodging unless they're close enough to go back home. The Falcs don't have a captain, but Jack suddenly remembers that Tater had volunteered to house Parse for the night, and his hands tighten involuntarily around Kenny's hips again, drawing a surprised hiss out of Kenny.

"Sorry," Jack apologizes thoughtlessly, and slides a soothing hand down over the curve of Kenny's ass.

"So is that a no, then?" Kenny asks, wary, dropping his face back down to the safety of Jack's neck.

"No," Jack says, fiercely. "No, it's not a no."

Jack reaches behind and shuts off the water. He draws Kenny by the hands out of the stall and carefully towels him off. Kenny's eyes close under the ministrations, and once Jack's done, he wraps the towel around Kenny's body and leads him back into the dressing room. It's empty except for Marty, Thirdy, and Tater.

Tater strides forward holding the backpack that contains the clothes Kenny arrived in, and Jack takes it from him wordlessly. Tater raises an eyebrow, that funny look on his face again, and asks, "We have problem, Zimmboni?"

Jack opens his mouth, barely able to hold back a snap in anger, but Kent speaks up before he can. "I'm good, Mash. No worries," he says, even as his head lolls to the side onto Jack's shoulder. "Jack's got me."

It does something pleasant to Jack's insides, maybe the first pleasant thing since this whole thing started.

Tater's mouth twitches up in a ghost of a smirk before settling into a line again. "Oh, so you take him home? Let little B feed him blueberry pie maybe?" he asks.

Jack freezes. His eyes narrow at Tater, but Tater just meets his gaze impassively.

"Jesus McFucking Christ, Tater, what the fuck?" says Thirdy.

"What? Just a question?" Tater replies with a shrug.

"If it's a problem, I can still go with Mashkov," Parse pipes up, and he sounds--it's that fucking media voice of his. That bullshit fake 'it's all good, it's all cool, no big deal' bullshit voice that means that Kenny's drowning.

Jack squeezes at Kenny's hip and says, eyes directly on Tater, "I'm gonna take Kenny home. It's no problem at all."

Tater's looking at Jack like he knows something that Jack doesn't know, and normally it would send Jack spiralling out, but Kenny needs him right now and Jack's going to hold on for as long as it takes to get Kenny home and taken care of. He's failed before, and he's not going to fail again.

"Zimms," Kenny whispers in Jack's ear, "take me home."

"Let's get you dressed first," Jack murmurs back, before he glances at Tater, Thirdy, and Marty in turn. "I've got him, really. I'll take care of it."

"All right, if you say so, kid," says Marty, looking like he's been ready to leave for hours now. "Get a fuckin' move on though. Cleaning crew's in here in about twenty." He then slings an arm around Thirdy's shoulders and starts off out of the dressing room.

Tater remains behind for a moment longer before he smiles at Jack. It seems normal enough, the kind of smile Jack's usually on the receiving end of at least fifteen times a day, but Jack can't help but look for the edge in it. The question of what the hell's going on--wondering what he's missing, but knowing it's something important.

"Take care of Parser, Zimmboni. And say hi to B for me." He reaches out a hand and ruffles Kenny's hair. "Good season, Kent Parson," he adds softly, before he turns and follows Thirdy and Marty out.

"The fuck was that," Jack says, mostly under his breath, as he guides Kenny over to a different bench and drops the backpack on it.

"So you got a boyfriend, Zimms," Kent says. It's not a question, and it shouldn't really take Jack by surprise, except that he hadn't thought of Bits back home from the second Parse swaggered into the room earlier until Tater shoved it in his face. Which is a problem.

Jack takes a moment to gather himself together by sifting through Parse's backpack and pulling out Parse's stupidly tight black jeans and soft gray v-neck tee-shirt. The shirt will be fine, that's fine, Kenny can handle that, but the jeans, they're too tight. How the hell am I supposed to get you back in these, Kenny?

Kent sighs and shrugs his shoulders. "I can put my own fucking pants on, Jack."

Oh, he asked that out loud. He didn't mean to. Jack swallows hard and makes himself look Kenny in the eyes. "I just mean...aren't you, euh, I'd rather you wear something...soft."

"Right, yeah," Kenny says, a little clipped, a little annoyed again. "So you're just not going to answer my question?"

Jack scrubs a hand over his face with a sigh and then reaches it out to rest on Kent's cheek. He rubs his thumb over Kenny's cheekbone and smiles a little at the way Kenny closes his eyes and leans into it a little bit. "His name is Bittle. He's...we've...it's been about a year," Jack answers. Facts are good. He's good at simple, straightforward facts.

Kenny doesn't respond, but he also doesn't move away from Jack's hand. After a too-long moment, Jack pulls away, but only to slip the tee-shirt over Kent's head and guide his arms through the holes. He then steps back and goes over to his own stall where he knows he has a spare pair of mostly-clean sweatpants. They're soft at least, and Kenny deserves something soft.

"These okay, Kenny?" he asks, when he walks back over.

"Yeah," Kenny agrees, barely even looking up.

Jack kneels down and takes Kent's left ankle in his hand. He strokes gently over the bone, down over Kenny's heel and then presses gently into the arch, just to hear that soft little moan that he remembers from all the way back in the Q, before slipping his foot through the leghole. He repeats it all on the other leg, and then pulls the sweatpants up as far as he can with Kent sitting.

"What are we doing, Zimms?" Kenny asks quietly. He sounds so tired again.

Jack wishes he had a better answer, but he doesn't have anything at the moment except the truth: "I'm taking you home, Kenny."


	2. part two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who has read, commented, kudos'd and bookmarked so far! Y'all are honestly the best! <3
> 
> A special shout out as well, again, to those nonnies in the FFA for all the ongoing encouragement - thank you!

Jack’s just sliding his key into the door when it swings wide open to reveal Bitty wearing a Zimmermann shirsey and his favorite pair of shorts, practically vibrating with energy and already talking a mile a minute. “Oh lord, honey, are you okay? I couldn’t stop thinking--” Bitty throws himself into Jack’s arms, and Jack catches him instinctively, even though it means letting go of Kenny’s hand--“I mean, I just had all these images in my head, and I could only imagine that you were-- _o-oh!_ ”

Kenny lists against Jack’s side when Bitty steps back out of the hug, and Jack gets an arm around his waist. He’s clearly fading--what he needs is a nap. What he needs is to be held while he naps.

“Bits, can you, euh,” Jack begins awkwardly, stepping over the threshold and almost startling Bitty backwards, “just give me a minute to, erm, to get him to bed?”

Bitty responds a beat too late. “Oh, uh, yeah, yes of course, sweetpea,” he says, tellingly wringing his hands at his chest. “I’ll, um, I made...I made a pie, I’ll go cut us a slice.”

“Zimms, please,” Kenny says, turning his head and pressing his nose into Jack’s collarbone. “If we’re not gonna talk, I gotta--I gotta lay down, man, please.”

“I know, Kenny, we’re going,” Jack replies softly, raising his free hand to slide into Kent’s hair and scratch gently over his scalp. He can feel Bitty’s eyes tracking his hand, and so he tears his gaze away from Kent. “Pie’d be good, Bits, thank you,” he adds, hoping it didn’t sound too harsh or too dismissive.

“Sure, Jack. Of course.” Bitty takes off for the kitchen without a backward glance, the set of his shoulders tense and tight, which leads Jack to believe that he hadn’t quite succeeded.

Jack watches him disappear before he leads Kenny down the hall to the guest bedroom. It’s always made up because it’s meant to look like Bitty is sleeping there and not where he actually sleeps in Jack’s bed. He kneels down and slips Kenny out of his shoes and then guides him to lay down in the bed. “Just, euh, give me a few minutes, baby,” Jack says, the endearment slipping out before he can censor himself.

“Hurry,” Kenny whispers, his eyes already fluttering closed.

“I will,” Jack says, smoothing his head over Kenny’s forehead, before he turns and goes to face the music.

Bitty’s standing at the island, one hand gripping the smooth marble surface and the other methodically shoveling forkfuls of what looks like strawberry rhubarb into his mouth. His gaze is fixed somewhere in middle distance, but he’s not crying; Jack doesn’t know if that’s worse though.

“I didn’t fuck him,” Jack blurts out, rough and blunt in a way that makes him feel clumsy. Like his first time skating when he fell down so much, he thought he was going to have a permanent bruise on his butt. And while it might technically be true, it feels so much like a lie that it sits heavy in his gut, tense and pained. “I mean I didn’t...that is, I didn’t…”

“--didn’t… _you know_?” Bitty finishes for him, when Jack isn’t able to articulate. Not that Bitty does much better in that department, really. They’ve been together for over a year, have been sleeping together for nearly all that time, but Bittle’s never really got comfortable talking about sex. Having it, sure, but talking about it, not so much.

Jack swallows a sigh that he knows will only sound frustrated to Bitty’s ears and steps up to the other side of the island. He puts both hands on it, lets the cool marble ground him in the moment. “I touched him. I...I got him off. I was last, and I wanted to get him off,” he confesses.

“You wanted?” Bitty drops the fork with a clatter that causes them both to flinch. “I--I mean, I thought--I thought it was supposed to be like,” Bitty’s voice is shaking as he tries to get the words out, “I thought it was about...about the win? I thought y’all were just supposed to get your--your--your jollies or whatever and then, and then, and then it’d be over? It wasn’t supposed to be...he wasn’t supposed to, to, to enjoy it...” He practically whispers the last, but it also sounds like a question.

A question that Jack isn’t sure how to answer without blowing up his life.

“He...I mean, they--” Jack cuts himself off when Bitty pulls up a stool, the scrape of metal on the ceramic tile grating and tinny and like a chill running down his spine, and continues once Bitty’s seated and staring at him with his huge brown eyes. “It’s not like it’s supposed to be a punishment for the visiting captain, Bits,” he explains.

“I know that, Jack, I’m not stupid!” Bitty spits, then gasps, a hand coming up to clutch at his chest, like he’s surprised himself with his sudden anger. “I mean…” he inhales and exhales slowly, visibly getting himself back under control, “I guess I’m just...confused.”

“So am I,” Jack replies immediately, grateful that it’s something he can be honest about.

“Oh, well at least there’s that,” Bitty replies sarcastically, before he once again shakes his head at himself and attempts to shove it back underneath the surface. “Lord, I’m sorry, Jack, I just...I don’t...I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m feelin’. I--I told you, my head was runnin’ all away with me all day, and then you just, y’show up here with… _him_ on your arm,” and Bittle’s babbling now, like he does when he’s nervous or excited or happy or worried, “and I’m tryin’ not to freak out, but like, I just don’t know...I mean, it’s like everything in my head can’t stop playin’ on a loop now, so like I guess I just…I need you to…”

“Anything, Bittle,” Jack prompts--and hopes that he can deliver.

Bitty flicks a glance past Jack in the general direction of the bedroom where Kenny’s hopefully in a deep, restful sleep. Then, he looks back at Jack and says, “Tell me what happened. I want to hear it from you.”

He owes Bittle that much at least. Truly, Jack knows that the absolute least he can do is to tell Bittle exactly what happened. He can sit at their kitchen island, where they’ve shared a year’s worth of meals and baked a year’s worth of pies, and explain the way it had felt to watch Parse get fucked over and over again. The way it felt to stand there and watch as Tater took Parse apart slowly and thoroughly. The way it felt to stand there, frozen and seething with the kind of jealousy he never thought he’d feel again where Parse was concerned, and watch and _want_.

And yet, he wants to protect Kenny still. He didn’t want his team to see how much it had all meant to Kenny (to _him_ ), those brief moments they’d stolen, the way Kenny had responded to him like all those years in between had never happened. He didn’t want to put Kenny on display in front of his team, and now he doesn’t know that he wants to put Kenny on display in front of Bits, no matter if it’s the right thing to do or not.

“Jack,” Bitty says, quiet, tremulous, “ _please_.”

Jack needs something to do with his hands. It’s always been easier for him to talk, especially about difficult things, but even in general, when he had something to do with his hands. Whether that something was stickhandling or peeling the label off a beer bottle or building a house of cards or braiding Shitty’s hair or...or kneading dough and assembling a lattice--Jack needs something to distract him from the weight of what he needs to say.

“I, euh…”

“Here,” Bitty says suddenly, before he turns around and grabs a bag of potatoes and a bowl from the other counter. “I was gonna do them scalloped for dinner,” he adds, with a shrug as he thrusts them across the island at Jack.

Jack smiles in spite of himself, opens the drawer and takes out the peeler. “Thank you,” he replies.

Bitty doesn’t say anything else, just gestures for Jack to go on. There’s a tightness around his eyes--pain or wariness, Jack isn’t totally sure. Probably both, and he feels awful for putting them there. He also knows, sadly, that it’s only going to get worse.

Jack picks up a potato and starts to peel it, long even strokes that scrape away the skin, before he finally begins, “Do you remember when I--when I told you that with Kenny...with Parse, euh, with Parse back then, it was only physical?”

“Yes,” Bitty answers, “right before you, uh, before you asked me to be your boyfriend.”

“Right,” Jack replies, stung, but certain he deserves it. “Right, well...I guess I don’t know...I don’t know how--how true that was.”

Jack keeps his eyes on the potato he’s peeling, but doesn’t miss the way Bitty’s breath hitches a little in his throat. He peeks a little when he hears the scrape of the other plate against the marble, but Bitty doesn’t meet his eyes, and instead just reaches for his fork. “I’m gonna…” he indicates Jack’s slice, “if you’re not hungry,” Bitty mumbles.

“Go ahead,” Jack replies, then swallows hard against the tightening of his throat. He knows he owes Bitty a real explanation. He really does want to give Bitty that. The hardest part, if he’s honest, is that it all feels suddenly so huge. It feels like something from a movie, maybe. A big, sweeping, dramatic story in many ways, but then also something small and quiet and only his and Kenny’s to understand in other ways. “I’m sorry,” he adds, “I’m sorry, this is...hard for me.”

Bitty nods slowly. “I know...but--” He cuts off with another nod, a sharper one this time, and then points at Jack’s hands. “Peel and talk, Mr. Zimmermann,” he says, and it sounds almost like he’s trying to make a joke, stern in the way he gets in the kitchen sometimes when Jack’s distracting him, but it’s missing the warmth that he can’t manage to keep out of his tone.

Jack takes a breath and gets back to peeling again. He lets it lull him a little, focuses on the way it feels to press and scrape. He finishes a full potato and sets it in the bowl Bitty’d give him, then picks up another and starts on it before he’s able to begin talking again.

“I guess I just didn’t realize it,” he says, quiet, but firm. He’s not going to shy away. He’s not going to diminish it or hide it. He’s going to be honest, as honest as he can. “I was standing in that room watching everyone...watching everyone touch him and--and--and _fuck_ him, and I don’t know, Bittle, I don’t know what happened, but it just...it hurt. It hurt to see him like that, and it shouldn’t have, should it? It was supposed to just be...” he sighs, passes the back of his hand over his forehead, closes his eyes a moment and tries not to picture it, but it’s so clear in his head, Kenny needed him. Kenny _needed_ him.

“Jack!” Bitty snaps.

Jack slams the peeler down, a sudden wave of anger. “I needed to help him, Bittle! I wanted--” The anger ebbs as quickly as it rose up, and he continues, soft, embarrassed, “I wanted to help him.”

“You wanted to help him,” Bitty repeats, after a long, unsettling pause.

Jack can’t read anything in Bitty’s tone, and so he quietly offers, “I couldn’t just leave him like that.”

After another considering, eternal pause, Bitty says, “This was about you wanting to--to take care of Parson.”

“Yes,” Jack answers quickly. But when Bitty scrunches up his face, his eyes hardening in their gaze, he adds, “Someone needed to make sure he was going to be all right after what he’d been put through.”

“And that someone had to be you?”

Jack doesn’t respond as quickly to the question this time. It sounds more like the accusation that it really is than anything else. Because, certainly, Jack could tell the truth: that no matter who originally was going to take Kent home and make sure he was comfortable and warm and all the things that are required after a good Cupfuck, Jack always was going to be the right person--the only person--for the job.

He could also tell the truth that no, actually, Tater was supposed to take Kent home and care for him and love on him and--

“Jack, honey,” Bitty gently interrupts his inner monologue, “tell me what you’re thinking right now.”

Jack blinks; realizes his hands are clenched in fists again, pressing hard against the marble, realizes he’s breathing hard and fast. Realizes he needs to just tell Bittle the truth and let the chips fall where they may.

“I was jealous, Bits,” he confesses. “I wanted to be the only one who touched him.”

Bitty’s face does a lot of complicated things, and it concerns Jack more than if Bitty had just immediately just started yelling at him. Because for as much as Jack knows he can be stoic and in robot-mode when it comes to emotional stuff, Bitty’s actually much more likely to hide what he’s feeling behind a cheerful, placid grin or a passive-aggressive chirp that goes over most people’s heads. But this: his disappointment, his anger, his sadness, all of it plays over his face in rapid succession, and Jack sees every heartbreaking moment of it. But before he can say something more, Bitty scrubs a hand over his face and sighs, then reaches for his fork again, only to growl a little when he sees that he already finished the slice. “ _Fuck_ ,” he barks out. “Why is it--I just want--”

“--I can get you another--”

“--honey, I love you, but shut the hell up,” Bitty interrupts the offer. “Just, please, for a second--”

“--you wanted me to talk, Bittle,” Jack cuts him off, then winces when Bitty glares at him. “Just, you...I’m sorry, Bits, but I’m trying to be honest--”

“--I know what I said, but can you please,” Bitty says, through his teeth, “give me one dang second, Jack, honestly!” He’s scraping the fork against the empty plate, the sound rough and grating, like nails on a chalkboard in the way it sends chills down Jack’s spine.

After nearly five excruciating minutes, Bitty gets up and takes his plate to the sink where he starts washing the few dishes that are left there.

Jack doesn’t follow him over. He just picks up another potato, starts peeling, and then says, “Bitty, I...I’m sorry about the way it happened, but...I don’t...I don’t know that I’m sorry it...happened.”

“Which part?” Bitty asks, just loud enough to carry over the sound of the running water.

Jack reaches for another potato, but the bag is empty. “Euh, I don’t--”

“--because what I’m afraid I’m hearin’,” Bitty continues, “is that even if you hadn’t’ve gone along with that-that-that _tradition_ , you still would have got to some point where you wanted Kent Parson back.”

“Bits, I--”

“--is that fair to assume from what you’re trying to tell me?” Bitty shuts the water off and then slowly turns around. His eyes are red-rimmed, but he’s valiantly holding back from crying, and Jack wants nothing more than to cross the room and gather him up in his arms.

And it’s possible that Jack is just a sucker for someone in need--someone he loves or loved or desperately cared for in need. It’s possible that he just wants to be useful, wants to do whatever he can to help people.

(But that doesn’t really feel true exactly.)

“Jack?”

“Yes,” Jack says, as evenly as he can manage, soft and honest. “Kenny and I...we--we never really got an ending, and seeing him like that today, it reminded me that I...that I want an ending with him.”

Bitty’s jaw clenches and his eyes harden, but he still doesn’t cry when he says, “And what kind of ending are you looking for?”

And Jack really wishes he had a definitive answer to that. “I don’t know yet,” he replies, meeting Bitty’s eyes as resolutely as he can.

“So when you told me,” Bitty begins, taking a step closer now, “that what happened with you and Kent Parson was just physical, and just a coupl’a times, and most important--” Jack can practically see the icicles forming around Bitty’s words, and it makes him hunch in a little on himself “--that it _ended_ , was that just a pack’a lies? Or were you so--so _in denial_ that you actually believed what you were tellin’ me?”

“Jesus, Bits, that’s not fa--”

“--not _fair_ , Jack?” Bitty interrupts, incredulous. He’s back across the kitchen again, standing right in front of Jack, fists clenched at his sides and looking up at Jack. “You--you, lord, are you really tryin’ to tell me it ain’t fair? It ain’t fair of me to ask you that?”

“No, I’m not,” Jack tries, and his hands stretch out of their own accord, try to come to rest on Bitty’s biceps, but Bitty flinches out of his grasp, so he lowers them awkwardly to hang at his sides. “I’m not saying that, Bits, I--”

“--what about any of this is fair, Jack?” Bitty asks.

“Nothing,” Jack answers, defeated and honest. “Nothing about this is fair to any of us.”

“But mostly for him?” Bitty replies, low and cold and--right.

“Bits, he didn’t ask for any of this,” Jack manages, swallowing hard against a rising swell of something that doesn’t quite feel like panic or fear, but is close enough for concern. “Kenny didn’t ask to be chosen for--”

“--how would you even know, Jack?” Bitty’s eyes are huge and staring at Jack with a kind of blazing determination that wouldn’t be out of place across the faceoff circle. “How would you even know? Because according to you, Kent Parson hasn’t been a real part of your life for _years_.”

“Well, euh, no,” Jack replies, trying to consider, trying not to give in to the temptation to bail on this difficult conversation. It’s at the back of his mind that Kent still needs him. He’s hopefully asleep, but he still needs Jack. He needs Jack to wrap around him and keep him close until he’s settled. “No, that’s true. He...he hasn’t been, no. You’re right, Bits.”

Bitty seems to deflate all at once, and it’s so different from the previous anger that Jack startles and catches Bitty’s upper arms again, as this time, Bitty allows it. “I guess that’s the worst part, Jack. That’s the hardest part for me. I don’t understand how one fuckin’ moment could...could change so much.”

“It can’t,” Jack murmurs, drawing Bitty in even closer, pulling him to his chest.

Bitty stays there in the cradle of Jack’s arms for a long moment just breathing; Jack can feel it against his chest, can feel it like he’s trying to calm down and match Jack’s heartbeat, but Jack’s heart is going too fast for it to be calming. And when Bitty speaks again, it’s muffled by Jack’s chest. Jack has to strain to hear Bits say, “I know...and I guess actually _that_ is the worst part.”

“What is?” Jack whispers back.

Bitty pulls back and looks up at him again. He has one hand on Jack’s chest and the other reaches up to cup Jack’s chin. He says, soft and determined once more, “It can’t have been just one moment then.”

Jack told Bitty once that he and Parse had always had an expiration date, and it was true.

He remembers, even through the sometime haze of being doped to the gills on anxiety medication, thirty-four supposedly perfect days between winning the Memorial Cup and the Entry Draft in Montreal that he spent with Kenny: Kenny feeding him fantasies about tearing through the NHL together, filling up the record books on their respective teams, meeting in the Finals and kissing under the Cup so that they’d always share that first one no matter who actually won it. Jack remembers wanting to believe it so badly that he just kept letting Kenny talk, even as he took another pill and another and another because the combination of those pills and Kenny’s fantasies actually let Jack sleep easy at night.

He remembers staring down the barrel of that expiration date and wanting so badly to pretend for a little longer that Kenny’s fantasies were going to come true that he took an entire bottle’s worth of pills so he could fall asleep in Kenny’s arms and wake up in the midst of that impossible dream.

He remembers waking up alone.

Kent Parson might not have been a part of Jack’s life for a long time, but deep down, he knows that Bitty is right: that Kenny was always a part of him in some small way or even some big one. The man Jack created from the scraps of that expired fantasy couldn’t escape the fingerprints Kenny left on him, no matter how hard he tried to burn them away.

“Bits, I never really got over it either,” Jack confesses. “I thought I had. But...but what happened today...you--you’re right. It wasn’t a moment. It wasn’t just one moment. It was…” He trails off, the words caught somewhere in his chest on their way to his mouth. He’s always hated words. They never seem to be enough. They never seem to be able to express what he really wants to say. Actions have always been better than words for him. But he knows he needs to try for Bitty’s sake.

Bitty waits a long moment before he says, “So you need to figure out your endin’ Jack.”

“What?” The question escapes in barely a breath.

Bitty looks down at the floor between them and then back up. His eyes are dark and wet, and his voice is shivery, and he says, “You need t’figure out what kinda endin’ we all deserve here.”

Jack turns his head so that he can press a kiss into Bitty’s palm. Bitty then takes a step back and lowers his hand. Jack watches him curl it into a loose fist before he asks, “How much time do I have?”

Bitty’s lip curves up, a smirk that seems out of place on him, before it smooths back out into something neutral. “Shouldn’t take that long, should it?” he asks lightly.

Jack doesn’t respond except to look away, out of the kitchen in the direction of the guest bedroom.

“I’m, uh,” Bitty says, drawing Jack’s attention back to where he’s now standing at the refrigerator and rummaging through, “gonna stay with a--a friend tonight, but…”

“But what?” Jack prods gently, after a long moment of watching Bitty pull out the ingredients for something chicken-and-veggie-based.

Bitty turns and there’s something in his expression again that’s hard and determined again. “But I’d like to come back in the morning,” he states--no hint of the way his words sometimes swing up into a question when he’s not entirely certain of something. It doesn’t, however, escape Jack’s notice that he hadn’t said “home.”

“Who are you staying--I mean, euh, I guess it doesn’t--what--”

Bitty cuts Jack off by striding across the space between them again, rising up on his tiptoes and tugging Jack into a kiss that tastes salty and feels too wet and just on the wrong side of rough. Jack’s arms move to encircle him once more, to gentle the kiss, but it’s over too quickly for him to do much more than blink wildly when Bits pulls away.

“I was gonna do a balsamic marinade for the chicken,” Bitty says, as he brushes past Jack out of the kitchen. Jack hurries to follow but pauses in the hall, as Bitty’s just standing in front of the door, looking down at the floor. Kent’s snapback is sitting there...it must have fallen when Jack was helping him inside.

“Bittle, I--”

“--the recipe’s easy,” Bitty says, never taking his eyes off it. “I’ll text it to you.”

“Bits, wait, please--”

“--he could use the--” Bitty cuts himself off this time, bends down, picks up the hat and then turns and tosses it to Jack as he continues, “--Parson could probably use the protein, am I right?”

It stings the way it’s clearly meant to, but Jack doesn’t respond. He just lets himself watch Bitty quietly close the door after himself and then lets his feet carry him back to the guest bedroom.

Kenny’s completely, blissfully asleep, curled fetally and with one tight fist pressed up under his chin. He looks exactly like he did when they were seventeen and used to share hotel rooms. Kenny asleep was always soft and sort of young in a way that didn’t mean naive, but rather carefree. The only sign that he’s still carrying any tension at all at all is the little crease between his brows, a little furrow that would be so easy to reach out and smooth away.

He supposes that he has been given permission to do just that, actually, at least for tonight.

Jack slips out of his sneakers and then strips down to his boxer shorts and tee-shirt. He hovers only a moment at the side of the bed, just long enough to do what he wanted: to trace his thumb over that furrow between Kenny’s brows and smile at the way Kenny’s lips part on an exhale and don’t quite close again.

“Zimms?” Kenny breathes, once Jack is spooned up behind him. 

“It’s me, Kenny. I’ve got you. I’ve got you now,” Jack whispers back. He wraps one arm around Kenny’s chest, lets his hand rest at Kenny’s heart, feels the slow, steady beat of it. After a moment, the fist at Kenny’s neck comes down to meet Jack’s hand. Jack twines their fingers together, Kenny exhales and presses back a little more against Jack’s chest, and whatever tension there might have remained dissipates entirely.

In the stillness, the vibration of Jack’s phone abandoned in the pocket of his pants on the floor is audible, but Jack wouldn’t get up even if he wanted to. Right now, for now, he’s exactly where he needs to be.


	3. part three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Added some tags - feel free to tell me if I should add some more. :)

There’s a moment right before Jack opens his eyes where he can actually feel the weight of Kenny’s gaze on him. It might honestly be what wakes him up actually, out of the dream he can only catch the barest snatches of before it’s fading from memory. Jack’s never been the type to remember his dreams--even the anxiety ones that leave him waking up with his heart in his throat and a weight on his chest, shaking and afraid of what he can’t even picture anymore. It’s a kindness, maybe. One small kindness that he can cling to.

Jack rolls over onto his back and then props himself up on his elbows. Kenny’s sitting on the very edge of the bed, near Jack’s feet, and as soon as Jack’d got up, he’d stopped looking at him, staring now instead at the wall.

“Bittle’s gone,” he says, the hint of a question in it, even though Jack’s pretty sure Kent had gotten up and done a bit of snooping.

“Yeah,” Jack answers. “But he said he’d be back.”

“Right. Okay.” Kent says nothing else for a long moment, but Jack just waits it out until Kent then adds, “So, um, should I...go then?”

“No.” Jack shifts until he’s able to get off the bed, comes around to stand in front of Kent. “Please don’t go yet,” he says, quiet and earnest as he can.

Kenny’s eyes close when Jack reaches out and cups his face, softly but firmly, a hold in place, an entreaty. “Jack, I don’t think,” he begins, and he sounds so uncertain and small and still somehow so tired, “I mean, I don’t know that…” He trails off and submits to the way Jack’s holding him, seems to let himself relax a little more as Jack lifts one hand away and draws it through Kenny’s hair, down over the crown of his head and back behind to his neck. “Jesus, Jack, if you keep--if you keep doing that, I’m not going to be able to...to leave.”

“I don’t want you to leave, Kenny,” Jack replies, as he gently massages at the muscles below the base of Kenny’s skull.

Kenny lets it go on for a long moment before he murmurs, “But only ‘til your boy comes back, right Zimms?” He opens his eyes and they’re steely-sharp, some funny color Jack doesn’t have a name for. He looks like he’s already resigned himself to being left behind again--and Jack can’t let that stand.

“Bittle told me I needed to make a choice,” Jack replies, as he takes a seat on the bed next to Kenny, letting their shoulders brush and their thighs press tight together.

Kenny snorts, “Magnanimous of him.”

Jack flattens his hands against his upper thighs, presses down a little to ground himself. The problem is that being given permission to touch Kenny makes it almost impossible for him to stop. He wants his hands on Kenny. He wants to make Kenny feel good. It’s all he wanted for longer, he supposes, than he’d even really realized. But he also knows that he owes it to Kenny not too get too distracted by the physical. He owes it to Kenny to explain.

“Kenny, when I, euh--watching you today--”

“--fucking hell, Jack, can we not?” Kenny interrupts him. He pushes up off the bed, leaving Jack behind, and starts to pace. “I don’t--fuck, I don’t want to sit here and rehash your fucking--your fucking caveman reaction to me getting plowed by all your fucking buddies today. If you’re gonna sit there and tell me that being jealous suddenly reminded you of how shittily you treated me for years, I’m just gonna grab a cab and find a damn hotel.”

“Well, I’m not going to pretend I don’t deserve that,” Jack replies, reaching down to grip the edge of the bed. He squeezes it once and then loosens the grip, trying to relax and keep from lashing out the way he suspects Kenny wants him to do. “You’re right about me having been jealous. I was so fucking jealous today. I wanted you for myself, but I’m sorry that--”

“--Jesus,” Kenny gasps, interrupting Jack.

“What?”

“You--you’re--” Kent cuts himself off with a frustrated-sounding growl and then rounds back on Jack. There’s a calculating look on his face now, and Jack recognizes it well. “So you were jealous, huh, watching me with all those guys, Zimms?” he asks, and fuck, Jack knows that tone too.

“Yes, Kenny,” Jack answers, as evenly as he can. “I was jealous.”

“Watching all your friends put their hands on me,” Kent continues, low and inviting, “got you all hot and bothered and...possessive, did it?” He puts his hands on either side of Jack’s hips on the bed, leans in close and practically whispers the last of it against Jack’s lips. “You know they weren’t the only team to have me, don’t you?”

The sound that Jack makes in response to the taunt leaves his throat entirely of its own volition, and Kenny’s lip curves up in that media-friendly teasing smirk. And the thing is, it makes sense, even if Jack didn’t know for certain that it had happened. ( _Because he wasn’t in your life anymore,_ some ugly little annoying voice in his head helpfully reminds him.) It makes sense that the high of the win would make anyone take a look at the roster of captains throughout the league and choose the best one.

The Falconers’ vote hadn’t been unanimous. Snowy had proposed Trevor Fielding of the Schooners for obvious reasons, which had grabbed a healthy amount of votes. But as soon as Tater had said Kent Parson, it had seemed inevitable. Jack had raised his hand and hadn’t stopped to consider why he was doing so.

“Who else?” Jack manages. His throat feels dry and he swallows, but it doesn’t seem to help much.

“You really want to know, Zimms?” Kenny leans even closer now, his lips skimming along Jack’s cheek until he’s whispering in Jack’s ear. “Anybody in particular? Or do you just want to hear all about how the Penguins took turns--”

“--wait,” Jack interrupts. “Wait, Kenny, I--”

“--what Jack?” Kent pulls back and looms over Jack again. His hands have clenched into fists and he’s...fuck, he’s beautiful--fired up, flushed, full of passion. It’s so different from his earlier docility, but it’s no less gorgeous. “If I’m still just here for you to get one last fucking hurrah since you didn’t get to fuck me earlier, can we just hurry the fuck up and get it over with?”

“No,” Jack replies, firmly. He stands too and takes Kent by the hands, ignoring the way Kent gasps at the contact. “No, Kenny, that’s not what I want. I don’t want ‘one last hurrah’ with you.”

“Then what _do_ you want, Zimms?” Kenny cries out.

“I want-- Kenny, I want--”

It’d be easier just to kiss him. It’d be so much easier to wrap his arms around Kenny, hold him close and kiss him to show him exactly how he feels. It’d be easier because then he wouldn’t have to actually say anything. He could hope that Kenny would read whatever he needed to read in that kiss--it’d say whatever it needed to say and that would be enough.

But it’s not enough. It’s not enough to take the easy way out. He owes Kenny that much; hell, he owes Bittle that much too. Jack may not ever be good with words, but at the very least, he can give Kenny this. He can say what he absolutely needs to say.

“I want you, Kenny.” Jack gently squeezes Kenny’s hands, but keeps his eyes focused on Kenny’s face. “I want you.”

Kenny’s eyes widen, his lips part, but he says nothing almost like...almost like he can’t find words. He’s staring back at Jack like he’s surprised--more than that, maybe. “Zimms, I--” he manages, before he stops, shakes his head and looks down. “No...that’s...you can’t just--you can’t just say that like...like you…”

“Like I mean it?” Jack asks. He lets go of one of Kenny’s hands only to use it to tip Kenny’s chin up to face him again. “I mean it, Kenny. I want you.”

Kent still looks dazed--not in the way he had before, when he was worn out and used and just needed to be taken care of, but like he literally can’t believe or trust what he’s hearing. And Jack certainly gets that. Nothing about how this has all happened is normal or easy or even makes sense, really. But all Jack knows right now is that he has to make Kent understand that when he says he wants Kenny, he means it.

“How can I prove it?” Jack asks.

“Christ, Jack, I…” Kent trails off a little helplessly, and his gaze drops again to stare at Jack’s chest. “I don’t know...I don’t know if you...if you can or not. It’s been--Jesus, it’s been literal fucking years since we...since I--I just-- _fuck_!” He tries to step back, get a little distance maybe, but it’s only for a moment before he’s stepped even closer, sighing gently. He puts a hand on Jack’s chest and slides the other up to Jack’s neck. “Zimms, I just don't know what I’m supposed to be feeling.”

“Can’t relate,” Jack deadpans.

“Fucking hell, Zimmermann,” Kenny replies, but it's fond in the way it always used to be when things were good. When they were best friends before anything else. He smiles and strokes along the soft skin under Jack's jaw. “You're such an asshole.”

It's Jack's turn to close his eyes and let Kenny run his fingers gently over his skin, soothe him a little. “I know I am, and I’m…” He lets himself take a breath and then opens his eyes again to look Kenny in the eye. “I know how this is going to sound, but--Kenny, I'm sorry that what happened today is what it took to make me realize that I missed you, so I guess I'm not actually sorry that it happened.”

Kenny’s eyes flick back and forth, like he’s taking in the whole of Jack’s face and trying to figure it out. Jack remembers a time when Kenny could read him better than anyone, even when he was at his most hockey-induced robot-mode or when he was yelling out his frustration with himself at the rest of the team. He wonders if Kent still has that instinct in him, no matter how much they’ve done over the last few years to ruin it.

“I’m not sorry either,” Kent replies then. He chuckles a little, self-deprecating, and adds, “I mean, my ass is a little sore, so I’m sorry about that part--”

“--can I help with that?” Jack interrupts, and if his voice gets low and his mouth curves up, he doesn’t think he can really be blamed. He slips one hand around to rest on the swell of Kent’s ass and gives it a gentle squeeze.

“So you’re grabbing my ass, but you can’t even kiss me?” Kenny asks, even as his eyes flutter closed and he smiles.

“Your lips sore too?” Jack teases, as Kenny sways a little closer in Jack’s now-embrace.

“Chirp, chirp, you fuckin’ dick,” Kenny replies, barely a whisper, as he tilts up his face to ask for that kiss.

Jack kisses him, just a soft press of their lips parted just enough to slot perfectly together--so, so different from before, and yet, so incredibly, perfectly familiar.

It’s hard not to love the way that Kenny practically melts into him again as he takes the initiative to deepen the kiss. He’s boneless and pliant again, just like when he needed Jack to take care of him earlier, except that this time, it’s his own choice. He’s choosing to be there in Jack’s arms, he’s choosing to let Jack hold him, let Jack comfort him and take care of him. He’s trusting that Jack isn’t going to run away as soon as the high of it all dissipates.

Kenny hums low in the back of his throat, as Jack squeezes his ass again and pulls him closer to press their hips together. “Fuck, Zimms,” he mumbles, when Jack dips his head down a little to kiss along Kenny’s jaw. “When you--god damn it--do you know how hard it was to-- _fuck_!”

“What was that, Kenny?” Jack asks, teasing, between nipping at the soft skin of Kenny’s neck. “I thought I was the one who was bad with words.”

“Really, Zimmermann?” Kenny pulls back just enough to look at Jack, and he’s not as soft as he was. There’s something back in his eyes, something guarded, and Jack really cannot have that.

Though he leaves one hand firmly on Kenny’s ass (because he really, really can’t help himself), he slides the other up to rub his knuckles in soothing circles over Kent’s back. “Sorry, I guess that was, euh, a dumb joke,” he offers.

“Forgive me for being fucking sensitive,” Kenny replies, a little biting, a little guarded still. He’s pressing back into Jack’s hands, though, which is a good sign.

“I was just teasing you, though. I like it when...when you…”

“...when I can’t talk?”

Jack shifts and dips his hand under the waistband of Kenny’s sweatpants, slips over his bare skin and smiles as Kent shivers a little. “I like it when I make it so you can’t talk,” he says.

“You did a pretty good job of it earlier,” Kenny murmurs. He clenches his ass and then relaxes again in Jack’s hand.

Jack’s struck by the power there; hockey’s been so good to Kenny in so many ways, but his body was always something that Jack never let himself focus on too much in the years they were apart. Unconsciously, maybe. It was dangerous to think about Kent’s hockey butt, dangerous to think about his thighs and his abdomen and that fucking ESPN body issue that might as well have been porn. Kenny’s body was-- is-- 

Oh, but Jack recalls, too, watching Tater with Kent earlier--the effortlessness, the strength, the endurance, and then the look on Kent’s face-- he wants to put that look there. He wants to be the only one to make Kenny look like that. He wants to be the only one to make Kenny slack and pliant with pleasure--

“All right, fine,” Kenny interrupts Jack’s train of thought, “tell me what made you jealous.”

“What?” Jack asks, thrown a little.

“I was trying to be a dick before, but now I want to hear it,” Kent replies. He’s got the same smirk on his face, but it’s definitely more teasing than mocking now. “Watching me with all those guys got you hot under the collar, didn’t it, Zimms?”

“Yes,” Jack practically growls.

“Yeah, like that, Zimms.” Kenny grinds his hips in a slow roll, presses against Jack’s dick, and fuck, they’re both getting hard, and god, how Jack wants him. “Tell me about it.”

Jack is hit with a wild, sudden sense-memory of being seventeen and pressed up against Kenny just like this, grinding like the dumb kids they were, fumbling to figure out how to best make each other feel good. Kenny was always so good at running his mouth even then, babbling and saying whatever came to mind to test what worked best to get Jack hot. But it had been Jack’s job, then, to encourage Kenny. Jack was supposed to say a little so that Kenny could say a lot.

He adjusts his grip so that he’s got his hands on Kent’s hips, pulling them flush together, slotting their cocks against each other, almost too tightly to do anything at all. It’s just a little reminder that Kenny is his for the taking now, and Kenny is willing to be taken. He holds Kent still and just looks him in the eyes, waits until Kent’s mouth parts like he’s going to tease Jack again or ask for something more than what he’s being given, and then he says, “You were so good for everyone, Kenny. I was proud of you.”

Kenny makes a strangled noise, almost pained, but clearly turned on more than anything. He presses his face into the crook of Jack’s neck and his hips start to twitch forward, seeking friction, but Jack continues to just hold him there. It’s always better when he makes Kenny wait a little.

“I was so proud of the way you took them all one by one. You gave them all exactly what they needed, didn’t you?” Jack asks.

“Zimms!” Kenny whines against Jack’s neck. He tries to thrust forward again, but again, Jack stops him with a firm grip.

“Kenny, be good, I’m trying to talk to you,” Jack says, before he tips his head down to press a kiss to the top of Kent’s head. “Like you asked me to.”

Kenny groans and very, very carefully holds himself still. “You’re the fucking worst, Zimmermann,” he says, before he starts to press soft, gentle kisses to Jack’s neck.

“You don’t think I’m the worst at all actually,” Jack replies, tilting his head up a little to let Kent get at the spot on his neck that seems directly connected to his dick sometimes. “If you thought I was so terrible, you wouldn’t be here, would you?”

“Careful, Jack,” Kent warns.

It’s too close for comfort, Jack realizes, as soon as he’s said it. The whole thing they’re building could easily be shattered with just one wrong turn of phrase, at least right now when it’s so new, while they’re still remembering each other. “Sorry,” Jack whispers.

“S’okay,” Kenny replies. “Bring me back.”

Jack takes a second to reassess, takes a deep breath in and out that causes Kenny to chuckle a little bit when it ruffles his hair ( _Tickles, bro!_ ), and then slides one hand down the back of Kenny’s sweatpants, just to hear him gasp. “I couldn’t help but wonder,” he says, as he slips a finger between Kent’s cheeks, just a little, just a tease at first, “if you were doing it for me the whole time. If you were giving them all what they needed just because you knew how it’d make me feel.”

“M-maybe I w-was putting on a show, a little,” Kenny replies shakily, before he pushes his face into Jack’s sternum, hiding.

Jack rewards the honesty by pressing a little more firmly between Kenny’s cheeks, dragging down to rest over Kenny’s hole and making Kenny whimper with it. “I know you were,” he says, low and possessive. “You wanted to show me…”

_What I was missing_ , he thinks, but doesn’t add. It might also be too close, too soon. He doesn’t want Kenny to take it the wrong way. All Jack wants now is to make sure Kent knows how happy Jack is that he’s here in his arms again.

“Jack,” Kenny whispers, then whimpers again when Jack presses firmly against Kenny’s hole, enough that Jack feels it give a little, wanting to take him in, but not prepared yet.

“You sore, baby?” Jack asks. “It can’t have been easy for you...all those guys, one after the other.”

“Fuck!” Kenny slams a hand against Jack’s chest, then braces it there, as Jack traces Kent’s rim less than gently.

Jack doesn’t have a whole lot of room to maneuver, his hand trapped as it is by the confines of Kent’s sweatpants as well as the way Kent can’t stop instinctually clenching his ass. Jack’s working himself up again, though, letting the images he’d wanted so desperately to avoid from earlier wash over him, letting himself remember how it felt to watch Kent be taken over and over again, when all he’d wanted was to be the one to touch him.

A shudder wracks Kenny’s whole body when Jack presses once more against his hole, and his fingers grip tightly into Jack’s tee-shirt to steady himself. “Zimms, please,” he begs, looking up with darkened eyes. “Please?”

“I don’t know,” Jack says, slowly removing his hand from Kenny’s pants and bringing it back to rest on his hip. He holds them just barely apart now, Kent’s hips twitching forward minutely, desperate to be taken care of, enjoying the anticipation. “I don’t know, Kenny. Can you even take more? After all those other guys, can you even handle another?”

“Fucking Christ, Zimms,” Kenny moans, swaying forward. Jack catches him easily, but keeps their lower bodies apart. “Jesus, Jesus fucking-- _please_ , goddamnit, please, Jack!”

Jack smiles, raises a hand to Kenny’s lips and waits until Kenny’s sucked two fingers into his mouth before he replies, “Since you asked so nicely, of course I’ll take care of you. Because you deserve it, baby. You deserve it.”

Kenny releases Jack’s fingers with an obscene sucking sound and then smiles, huge and dazzling, before he starts to drop to his knees. Jack quickly hooks an arm under Kent’s to stop him though. “Don’t you want me to--”

“--I said I was going to take care of you, Kenny.”

“Jack, I…” Kenny looks unsure again, and Jack presses his thumb to the crease between Kent’s eyebrows. “Zimms, are you--”

“Let me prove it to you?” Jack asks.

Kent takes a deep breath in and out and then nods. “Okay, yeah...yeah, I get it...I get it,” he answers.

Jack isn’t so sure that Kent does understand, but then, Jack’s also not so sure he could explain it if he tried. There is still so much unspoken between them, but the difference is, now they actually have time. It doesn’t feel like he’s avoiding the difficult conversation they still have to finish, nor does it feel like he’s even postponing it really. It just feels like he wants to give Kent something, and right now, he can.

“Get on the bed for me, Kenny,” Jack then says, purposefully lowering his tone because he knows it’ll help Kenny stay in the right headspace.

Kent smiles at him again, softer this time, and does as he’s been asked. Jack watches his perfect ass as he crawls up to the middle of the bed and then turns to look over his shoulder. “How do you want me?”

Jack knows how, but he waits--lets Kent wait too.

“Oh...yeah,” Kenny continues, huffing a little laugh, “sure, I guess you never did get a chance to have me ride you.”

“No,” Jack responds, firm. “On your belly.”

“Oh…” Kent says again, and Jack knows he isn’t imagining the disappointment in it.

It isn’t that he doesn’t want to look Kenny in the eyes; it’s just that he has other plans first. “Kenny, stop,” Jack orders, when Kent moves to take his pants off. “I said, on your belly.”

Kenny fixes him with a look Jack can’t quite get a read on before it smooths out into something sly again. “Wanna unwrap me?”

Jack grins. “You know I do.” Back in the Q it had been one of Jack’s favorite hobbies, after kissing Kenny breathless.

Kenny lies down then, head pillowed on his folded arms and eyes half-lidded. “Go on then. I’m waiting, Zimms,” he says.

_You’ve been waiting,_ Jack thinks, his grin softening into something less bright. He reaches up, though, hides it with his hand. He doesn’t want Kent getting the wrong idea. Because it’s maybe a little arrogant to think that Kent’s been holding a torch for him all this time, no matter that it’s true.

He manages to hold himself back from reaching out only a moment longer, and then he’s easing Kent’s sweatpants down over the strong curve of his ass. Jack’s tempted, once they’re settled down at Kent’s mid-thigh, just to stare his fill, having not had much of a chance to look earlier today. He slides his palms up from Kent’s thighs over his cheeks, digs his thumbs into the meat of them and chuckles a little at Kenny’s groan of pleasure. “Again?” he asks, and, without waiting, he massages down from the top this time, pauses when he’s got a perfect handful, and lightly spreads them. “Fuck, you look so good for me.”

Kent whimpers a little, flexes under Jack’s hands, and then squirms when Jack does nothing more than hold him open. “Jack, please-- _Zimms_!”

“Hold still, Kenny, let me look at you,” Jack says.

“Fuuuuck,” Kent whines, but then takes a steadying breath and goes lax.

Jack bends down close, drags his nose down the column of Kent’s lower back and then, as soon as he feels Kent tense again, straightens up. “Relax,” he directs, squeezing Kent’s ass and dipping one thumb a little closer to Kent’s hole.

“How the fuck am I supposed to relax when you won’t stop fucking teasing--Jesus, shit!”

Jack chuckles at that and rubs gently over the red mark he’s left. “Want another one, or are you going to relax?”

“Honestly?” Kenny replies. “Spank me again some other time, Zimmermann. I want your fucking tongue in my ass right goddamn now.”

Jack dips down and licks a quick stripe over Kent’s hole, no finesse, no technique, nothing but the flat of his tongue, just to surprise him, and he’s rewarded with Kent’s strangled cry and a squirm somehow both towards the sensation and away from it. “No good?” he asks, a murmur, really.

“Please,” Kenny begs, “please, Zimms, please--oh fuuuuuck…” He groans, pushing back against Jack’s tongue, as it traces Kent’s rim, not too firmly, but not a tease either. “God, fucking, fuck, I forgot--forgot how g-good, oh _God_!”

It doesn’t take too long for Jack to lose himself in it; he’s always liked rimming, both giving and receiving, but giving in particular. There’s something deeply intimate in getting his mouth on someone, getting them off by his lips and tongue alone, maybe because his mouth often gets him into trouble. Maybe because his mouth is much better when it’s in the service of someone’s pleasure.

He flicks his tongue over Kenny’s hole, teases it kittenishly, then drags the flat of it over like Kent’s an ice cream cone. He covers it with his mouth and sucks gently--that always used to make Kent’s whole body shiver, and he doesn’t disappoint now--then laves at it to soothe. He dips his tongue inside, just a little, just enough for Kent to feel the difference, and all the while, he squeezes and rubs Kent’s cheeks, his hands moving like muscle memory.

He remembers so well what it was like--all of it coming back to him, the best ways to make Kenny feel good.

Jack doesn’t know how long he continues to rim Kent, only paying attention to the way he’s shivering and whining and crying out under Jack’s ministrations. He’s only listening to Kent’s body, as he plays Kent like a really beautiful game of hockey. And then, suddenly, Kent’s hand is scrabbling back behind himself, batting impatiently at Jack’s head. Jack lifts up a little, wipes his mouth, and says, “Need something, baby?”

“Wanna--wanna c-come, p-please, Zimms, please, need to-to come, please, please,” he babbles.

“Then on your knees for me, Kenny.”

Kent whines again, as he pushes himself up onto his hands and knees. His dick is hard, bobbing up and down as he moves, and leaking pre-come steadily. Jack then carefully gets him out of the sweatpants, one leg at a time. It’s not particularly graceful, but he thinks Kent will forgive him, especially when he gives Kent’s dick one long firm stroke once the sweatpants are tossed carelessly on the floor next to the bed. “Shhh--iiiit,” Kenny groans, his whole body tensing up again. “Fuck, Zimms, please, please, I have to--I need to come, please, please don’t--don’t make me w-wait anymore.”

“I won’t, Kenny, I promise,” Jack replies. He gives Kent one more agonizing stroke, smiling as Kent shivers and then tenses again, and then goes to rummage through Kent’s duffle bag where he finds the remaining packets of lube from earlier and a condom. He’d been steadily hardening as he’d rimmed Kenny, and so he shucks his shirt and boxers quickly and then easily rolls the condom on. He slicks himself up, only letting himself enjoy it for a moment because he wants to take care of Kenny. He’s been so good, and he deserves to come.

Kenny’s practically vibrating with anticipation when Jack crawls back on the bed. “Come on, Zimms, come on, come on, come--oh fuck-fuck-fuck-shit-fuck-oh _God_!” He moans and curses and cries out, bearing down on Jack’s dick as Jack slides inexorably home.

Kenny’s body takes Jack in so sweetly, so perfectly that Jack’s not even sure he’s going to last all that long. He almost laughs, though, when he bottoms out by getting an arm around Kent’s chest and hauling him up to sit in the cradle of Jack’s hips. Kent only has a moment to press back into Jack’s chest before he’s coming, dick untouched, and squirming through it, like he’s been waiting forever.

“So pretty, Kenny, that’s so good, you’re so good for me,” Jack praises, in between kissing at Kent’s neck and behind his ear. He holds firm against Kent’s wriggling through his orgasm, trying to stay focused, despite that it feels really, really fucking good on his own dick.

“Fuck, Jack, say it--say it again, please, please,” Kent pants, as his head drops back to rest on Jack’s shoulder.

Jack draws one hand up the long column of Kent’s throat until he can grip Kent’s chin and turn his head to the side. “You’re so good for me,” Jack says against Kenny’s lips. “Thank you.” He punctuates it with a firm kiss and then, once he’s pulled back enough to look Kent in the eye, he thrusts up with a sharp snap of his hips.

“Fuck, yeah, yes, go on, fuck me Zimms,” Kent encourages, as he raises a hand and wraps it around behind Jack’s head, pulling him in.

“Sure you’re not too worn out?” Jack chirps, and then presses his face to Kenny’s neck and starts sucking at the sweat-slick skin there.

Kenny huffs a laugh and says, “Not yet, Zimmermann. Do your worst.”

“Rather do my best,” Jack replies. And before Kenny can chirp back, he thrusts up again, making whatever retort Kenny had die in his throat on a moan instead. “Think I could fuck another one out of you?”

“Fuck,” Kent whimpers, head lolling back onto Jack’s shoulder again.

“Right, exactly, Kenny,” Jack teases, but it’s low and full of intent because he’s not trying to make Kent laugh anymore. “Do you think you could give me another one?” Jack thrusts up sharp again and then lowers a hand to hover over Kent’s now mostly-spent dick. “You think I could work you over so good you could give me another?”

“Hnnngh,” is Kent’s eloquent reply.

“Can’t hurt to try, can it?” Jack asks, as he wraps his hand around Kent.

Kent moans again, shaking his head and pushing back to try to get away from Jack’s hand, but it only serves to push him back into Jack’s lap. Jack has to take a steadying breath--god, fucking hell, Kenny’s ass feels so good around him. “Okay, okay, I won’t,” he then manages, eyes closed tight against the sensation of Kent clenching and relaxing around him.

“No, no, wait, I want--I want--” Kent cuts off, exhaling shakily. “I can do it. I can do it, Zimms, please.”

“You sure, Kenny?”

“So sure,” Kent replies quickly. As if to prove it, he lifts himself up this time and drops back down hard on Jack’s dick.

“Crisse, Kenny that’s--that’s so good, fuck!” Jack cries out, hands tightening on Kent’s body to hold him in place. He grinds his hips a little, rolling up a little to make Kenny and himself really feel it. “God, you feel so good.”

Kent laughs, but it’s mostly breathless and shaky, like he can’t do much more than that. “Right back at you, babe--fuck!” His hands come down to brace on the bed, as Jack shifts a little, spreads his knees further and opens Kenny up more. “Yeah, Jack, just like-like that. Just like that, please,” he cajoles. “Make me feel it, come on--oh! Oh, yeah, yesss…”

Jack keeps his thrusts deep but sharp, chasing the pleasure that Kent seems so eager to give him. It feels incredible, and the need to come keeps building higher and higher. “F-fuck, you’re so-so goo-good, Kenny, that’s--come on, follow me,” he babbles. Jack then pushes down on Kent’s back until Kent follows, lies flat on his belly again with his ass arching up. Jack grips him by the hips and starts fucking him hard, the slap of skin against skin loud in the room and punctuated by the breath that feels like it’s been punched out of Jack with every thrust.

This is what he’d wanted before, when he’d had to stand by and watch--this is what he hadn’t realized-- No.

“Fuck, please, Jack, please--whoa, shit, Jesus!” Kenny cries out as Jack pulls out and quickly flips Kent over. He looks up with eyes that are wide and concerned suddenly. “Are you, Jack, are you o--”

“--I’m fine, Kenny. I’m fine,” Jack says, as he rubs one hand down Kenny’s chest. He stops when he reaches the trail of dark blond hair, feels Kent’s lower abdomen tighten in anticipation. Jack smiles down at Kenny, as he gets a hand around Kent’s dick again. “I just wanted to look at you.”

Kenny rolls his eyes and says, “You’re such a loser, Zimms,” but the chirp is undercut entirely by the sudden sharp whine that follows it when Jack strokes Kent’s dick firmly. “Fuck, fuck, no, too much, too much,” he cries out, jerking his hips back despite that he can’t exactly get too far away.

Taking pity, Jack lets go, only to brace his hands on either side of Kent’s chest and lower himself down in what might have passed for a push-up if he had any sense of proper form at the moment. “It’s okay, Kenny, I know it’s a lot. I know it’s been so much all day. You’ve been so good, though…” he trails off to rain several kisses over Kent’s face, before pressing himself back up to realign their dicks together. “I just want to make you feel as good as you’ve made me feel.”

“Ziiiiimms, oh fuck!” Kent whines again, as Jack rolls his hips in a slow drag over Kent’s oversensitive skin. “Please, please, it’s s-so-so much.”

Jack waits until Kent settles again--Kent’s flushed bright red and his dick, though still not fully hard, looks like it’s trying valiantly to get with the program. Jack knows that, for all his desire, Kent really probably doesn’t have another one in him right now, and it disappoints him for only a moment because he then remembers that this isn’t going to be the last time he gets to have Kent. “I’m so proud of you, Kenny,” Jack praises again, as he tries once more, just in case--one more slow roll of his hips against Kent’s.

Kent bucks up into it this time, and his hands come around to claw into Jack’s back, holding him close and tight to him. “Please, Zimms, p-please, I want you to come. Come for me, please, please, I don’t kn-know if I c-can or not, but I want-I want you-I want you to come,” he begs. He’s shivering again, trying to hold himself back or maybe just hold himself together under the onslaught of so much sensation.

“Fucking hell, Kenny, you’re so beautiful,” Jack breathes, before he closes the gap between them and kisses Kent hard and intense and everything that their earlier first kiss was not. He ruts against Kent once, twice, three more times, and then, with a cry, he starts to come, hips jerking and panting hard, as Kenny shakes and shakes beneath him.

Once he’s come back to himself at least enough to notice that at least Kent’s breathing has evened out, though he’s still trembling a little, Jack carefully rolls off Kenny so that he can take care of the condom. His legs feel like jelly when he stands up and walks over to the trashcan, and he has to steady himself with a hand on the wall for a moment before he turns around and walks back.

Kenny’s flat on his back, one hand resting on his abdomen and the other arm flung over his eyes. His chest hitches, and Jack suddenly thinks that maybe he’s crying. He sits down next to Kent and reaches out to pull Kent’s hand away. Sure enough, tears are leaking out of his eyes, but he doesn’t look sad or hurt or upset. He’s just overwhelmed--he’d been through so much, Jack certainly doesn’t blame him.

“You okay, Kenny?” Jack asks, hoarse from exertion.

Kent huffs a laugh again, closes his eyes. “I’m so, so, so fucking good, Zimms,” he answers.

“Good,” Jack replies, tracing Kent’s teartracks, wiping away the wetness, and then slipping back up along Kent’s cheekbone. “You were--you were so good for me.”

Kent opens his eyes at that, lips curving up in a smile. “Well, I did try,” he says, and there’s something wry in it, but it doesn’t match the open, unguarded affection in his eyes.

Jack lies down next to Kent then, opens his arms, and lets Kent shift over to be cradled. He can feel Kent’s breath against his bare chest, tickling a little at his nipple, slowing, evening again. They could fall asleep just like this, and it’d be okay. It’d be more than okay.

As if following Jack’s train of thought, Kent yawns widely and then burrows his face a little into Jack’s skin. He tenses a little then, though, and Jack braces himself for the question he didn’t want to think was coming, but knew was certainly hovering there in Kent’s mind. “Jack, what...um, what happens tomorrow?”

Jack strokes Kent’s back, tracing the length of his spine and petting over his ass as far as he can reach before repeating it back up. “I don’t know,” he answers honestly. But before Kent can panic or lash out, he continues, “But I want you to be there, Kenny. No matter what happens tomorrow, I want you to be there.”

“Oh,” Kent breathes out. He lifts his head a little, the angle clearly uncomfortable, until Jack spreads his legs and lets Kent climb up to lay on top of him. “So, you, uh…”

“I meant what I said, Kenny,” Jack assures him, folding his arms over Kent’s lower back and holding him close. “I don’t know what’s going to happen, but I want you with me. I want...I want us to figure it out--you and me.”

Kent smiles, a small thing, soft and pretty. “Okay, Zimms,” he says, as sure as anything, “sounds like a plan.”

Jack smiles too, as Kent lowers his head onto his chest and closes his eyes again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so incredibly much to everyone who has followed along this story with me. I've had a blast writing it, and I appreciate your support so much! <33333


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